


Futility

by hurricanine



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:38:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricanine/pseuds/hurricanine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lately, Michael has been quiet, his eyes guarded – and tonight was no different, though he put up a good show of laughing and joking with the rest of them. Franklin has seen that look, that thousand yard stare – he's seen it before, and all too often.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Futility

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ever-amazing Synekdokee's prompt: After the big one Michael's life doesn't get magically better. And we all have our limits when we start looking for a way out. I can't see him being consciously suicidal, but subconsciously..? Franklin realises Michael's pulling riskier and riskier jobs and alerts Trevor until something really bad happens.

    Franklin Clinton    

 

A lot of things changed after the big score. As he sat in the back room of the Vanilla Unicorn, drinking and shooting the shit with the guys, Franklin wasn't sure if all of those changes were good or not. Sure, they were all millionaires, and every two-bit criminal between here and Liberty City was hushed with awe for whoever had the balls to pull a heist like that, but they had also made it to the top of the FIB's Most Wanted overnight. The federal government didn't exactly take kindly to having two hundred million in solid gold bars stolen out from under their noses.

But it was more than that. Lately, Michael had been quiet, his eyes guarded – and tonight was no different, though he put up a good show of laughing and joking with the rest of them. Franklin had seen that look, that thousand yard stare – he had seen it before, and all too often. That look in Michael's eyes was the same as he saw in the kids down on Strawberry, the ones who slept in bus shelters and robbed places uptown just to have a place to stay that was warm and dry. It was the same as he saw in the gangbangers who lived fast and hard and died too young, caught in the crossfire _._

It was enough to make him pull Lester aside. He waited until Michael and Trevor were busy arguing about whether or not something had happened fifteen years ago, then leaned in towards their resident geek.

“Lester.” Franklin kept his voice low, though casual enough that Michael wouldn't suspect. “You noticed anything odd lately?”

“You mean aside from the usual?” Lester peered at him through the thick lens of his glasses, looking as if he would rather be back home, surrounded by computers instead of alcohol and scantily clad women.

Franklin shrugged. “Y'know, with Michael. His whole 'bad as shit, tough guy' attitude.”

“I was afraid you'd say something like that.” Lester fell quiet, glanced furtively at the pair of middle-aged idiots across the room, then continued. “I hoped I was imagining things – Michael de Santa is the oddest bird of the bunch, even when he was still Michael Townley. But... these heists... They're too risky, too much for what they pay. The logistics of them... And the layouts, they're all wrong-”

“You talked to Michael about this?”

“Of course I did!” Lester's glare could curdle milk. “He wouldn't listen, kept saying he had it all under control... And, well, he did, but- Something's up, Franklin.”

Lester wasn't wrong. For a while after the job, they had all laid low – at least, that had been the plan. Franklin had been perfectly content in his house up on the hill, forty million dollars in the bank and nothing more pressing on his schedule than keeping Lamar out of trouble (and busting him out when his best efforts failed). Not too fucking shabby for a kid from Strawberry, and he'd have been content to keep on living like that for a long time.

Then Michael had called him up. He'd thought it was just for drinks, just chilling at the mansion on Portola or down in whatever dive was nearest – but it turned out there was a group of nobodies in town who were causing trouble and claiming they were the ones to rob the depository. Franklin didn't see why they just didn't let the fools take the fall, seeing as it'd get some of the heat off their backs, but apparently Michael and Trevor adhered to the criminal code of ethics more thoroughly than he would have thought.

They got the group together and broke into the gang's crib, jacking everything they owned and torching the place when they were through; except it didn't work out quite as neatly as that, with the bastards rolling up just as they'd finished packing up the last of the jerry cans. With their backs against the blaze, they shot their way out. The damned gangers were pissed and, seeing as they had nothing else to lose, they fought like maniacs. By the time the last of them was dead or sent running, Franklin was covered head to toe with sweat and blood and soot.

It didn't stop there. Three weeks later, Michael rang him again. A favor for Lester, nothing out of the ordinary. Michael's plan seemed like a stretch – but he hadn't failed them yet, and Franklin was still trying to learn everything he could from the older man, so he shrugged it off and went along. When they finally shook the cops after that job went south, they were ten miles out of town, driving on a flat tire and two sparking rims. They got the documents Lester wanted, but Franklin hadn't felt that close to disaster even during the Paleto clusterfuck.

And then there was the exhibition down at the Maze Bank Arena: millions in flawlessly cut gems. The security was top-notch, boasting about their impenetrable defense for a whole week before the stones were even in Los Santos. They went for it, him and Trevor and Michael. It wasn't about the money, Franklin had seen that in Michael's eyes. He had wondered, and not for the first time, if it ever really was. Somehow, and he still couldn't quite believe it, they got the gems. The risks they took, though... There had been too much riding on everything going right, and since when did that ever happen with them?

He should have confronted Michael then and there – and a thousand moments over the past month, any one of them could have been it. But Franklin felt an odd reluctance, maybe out of fear that he was right, and kept his mouth shut until after Michael had staggered out the door to catch a cab. He swallowed a mouthful of beer, wondering how bad things really were if he was willing to talk to _Trevor_ , of all people, about this. He made his way across the room.

“Yo, T. Can I talk to you about somethin'?”

Trevor was more than a little drunk, though it was hardly discernible from his default state, and patted the couch beside him. “Suuure, Franklin. What's on your mind, come tell Uncle Trevor.”

He opted to remain standing. “It's Michael, man. He's been actin' all... weird, lately, right?”

Franklin didn't expect the sudden sharpness in Trevor's eyes; perhaps he wasn't as drunk as Franklin had thought. “Mikey? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The jobs. They ain't like the ones we ran in the past, before the big score. Sure, somethin' usually went wrong with those, but it never felt like we was gonna die.”

Trevor waved it off. “Oh, you know Michael. It's probably just another-”

“Shit, man!” He stared at Trevor, refusing to back down. “This isn't just some mid-life, existential crisis bullshit – and you _know_ it. I've been running with Michael for less than a year, and I can see this ain't like him. You're supposed to be his best fucking friend. Don't tell me there's nothin' wrong here.”

“You're just reading too much into things, _homie_. You know Michael _de Santa_ , the poor sack of shit he was pretending to be. This is the Michael _I_ know. Is that such a bad thing?” Trevor spread his hands in a loose shrug, but Franklin could see the rage building just under the surface. He had about thirty seconds left to make his point before things got violent.

“If it's gonna get himself killed, shit, then yeah, it is!”

Trevor sneered. “Fuck you, don't worry about it.” But something must have gotten through, because the other man threw his hands up. “If I talk to him about it, will you stop being such a pussy?”

“That's all I'm askin', man,” Franklin conceded, relieved beyond measure that he wasn't going to end up on the wrong side of Trevor's temper tonight. “Thanks, dog.”

 

 

    Trevor Philips     


 

Life had never been better.

TP Industries was spreading across San Andreas like a weed, choking out the competition and raking in the profits. In his experience, there was no better place than being top dog. And Michael was back – Michael was _back_. Trevor had never felt more alive than he did with his best friend at his side, on the run from cops or gangbangers, whoever they had pissed off that week. It was like the old days, and it felt _good_. He was gunpowder and gasoline, and Michael was the spark. No matter the odds, nothing could stand in their way; some days, it was enough to make him forget Ludendorff.

Maybe if Franklin had never opened his mouth, things would have been fine. They could have gone on running like that forever.

The night after the kid had come to him with his concerns, Trevor called Michael up and dragged him back down to the Vanilla Unicorn, just to humor Franklin. He didn't see the point in it, but he'd grudgingly trusted the kid with his life enough times that it didn't make sense to ignore his advice entirely. He still waited until he and Michael both had some beers in them, languid and relaxed as they watched the girls strut around the club.

“So what's with the... y'know.” Trevor gestured with the head of his bottle. “Thought you were too old for all this. What happened to making movies?”

Michael shot him a skeptical look. “What the hell do you care? You're the one that wanted me back in the game.”

“Yeah, when have you ever listened to what ol' T has to say?”

“Fuck you,” Michael said lightly, laughing as he took another drink of beer.

Another dancer took to the stage, wearing less than the girl before her, and the night carried on beneath the glow of neon lights and the pulsing of the music. Michael had that look on his face again, his thoughts a mile away as he stared into the middle distance.

“Got another job for us,” he said finally, and Trevor sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Something good. It'll be dangerous. You in?”

Trevor lifted his bottle with a grin. “Always.”

Michael's smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

 

\- - -

 

It had been a set-up.

It had been a motherfucking _bust_ , and they had walked straight into it.

The crew scattered. The two gunmen they had hired were downed almost instantly, one of them missing a sizable chunk of his head thanks to a trigger-happy cop. Trevor never found out what happened to their hacker – didn't care - and the last he saw of Franklin was the other man's back as he sprinted down an alley. Trevor hoped he made it out; if any of them deserved to survive, it was that kid. As for he and Michael, well...

The cops were hot on their heels. From one end of the city to the other, they ran. They switched cars, they ducked between buildings, they swerved through construction sites – but no matter where they went, it seemed as if the cops were two steps ahead.

A thousand times, Michael yelled at him to _go_ , to split up, reasoning that they couldn't follow _both_ of them. It was too much like Ludendorff, it was too much like North _fucking_ Yankton, so Trevor gritted his teeth and stuck close to Michael's side.

They ended up in LS Port. The broad side of the cargo ship in the bay was already lit up in flashes of red and blue; the police had turned off their sirens, but Trevor could hear their brakes squealing in the distance. It felt like a trap. Even as they clambered into an empty shipping container, Trevor felt the noose tighten around his neck.

For a moment, it was quiet. Trevor put his back to the end of the container, sliding down to sit on the floor. His lungs were burning, his muscles aching, and there were only a few rounds left in his gun. As he waited for his heart to stop pounding so furiously, he watched Michael pace the length of the container.

“Shit. God _dammit_!” Michael hissed, forgetting to keep his voice down. He looked at Trevor, somewhere between anger and apology. “I never meant for this to-”

“What?” Trevor's eyes narrowed. Michael fell silent “Never meant to get yourself cornered by the cops, with enough bullets to kill maybe ten of them, with no hope of escape? Hm?” He waited a beat, let the words sink in. “Or you didn't mean to get me killed too, that it?”

Michael glared at him, the old familiar spark returning to his eyes. “Fuck you.”

Trevor surged to his feet, exhaustion forgotten. “No, fuck you, M. I didn't ask to be dragged through your whatever-the-fuck-this-is crisis.”

“The hell you didn't.” Michael stomped closer, clenching his teeth to keep from shouting. The metal walls of the shipping container vibrated as a helicopter passed overhead. “You were perfectly happy coming along for the ride – but you just couldn't let it go.”

Trevor wanted to hit him – oh, goddamn, did he want to hit him. “I wasn't leaving you again!” he snarled.

“I didn't want you here!” Michael waved his arm, the one still holding the gun, and it felt like they hadn't left North Yankton at all. They had stood over Michael's grave then – now they stood over one of their own making. “Why couldn't you, for once in your life, just leave me the fuck alone?”

Trevor shook his head. “No wonder your shrink skipped town.”

“He tried.” The anger faded for a moment and the old Michael was back, looking guilty. “I shot out his tires and he swerved into oncoming traffic.”

Despite it all, Trevor laughed. He'd always suspected Michael was just as psychotic as himself – just better at hiding it.

The helicopter circled again, closer. Through the cracks in the container's door, he could see a floodlight shining through.

“So what's this, some sort of suicide?”

Michael shook his head, too quick. “It's not like that, T.”

“No?” Trevor stared him down. Michael looked away. “C'mon, man. We did alright. We survived.”

Michael laughed bitterly. “Survived, yeah – me with a shitty family in a city of fake fucking plastic people, and you in the middle of fucking nowhere with no one who gives a shit.”

“We got each other.”

“That's not enough, T.”

“Then what the everloving fuck do you want?” Anything in the world, just name it, he'd find it. Whatever Michael wanted, whatever would make him happy, content, just _anything_ but this fucking _defeat_! He was just lying down to die, and Trevor couldn't take it. He couldn't _take_ it, like a fucking kid who couldn't understand why the family dog wouldn't wake up, even when he could see the thing split open on the side of the road.

When Michael spoke again, his voice was so low that Trevor struggled to hear him over the whir of the chopper and the police shouting on a loudspeaker in the loading bay below. “I thought I could be done with this. The rush - being the _bad guy_. I thought I could just walk away. I'm a fucking idiot. This is who I am, isn't it?” Trevor had never heard Michael's voice that hollow; it was enough to make him pause, to wonder how many mistakes he had made to bring them to this point.

“Michael-”

“It doesn't get better.” Michael laughed, a broken sound. “People don't retire from our kind of life. They die before they can get old. Doesn't matter how smart you are, there's someone smarter. I gave up everything I loved to get out – sold my fucking soul – but it's never that easy.”

“Mikey, just listen to m-”

“Don't tell me I've got so much to live for! _Don't_!” Michael shoved him back, the cold metal of the gun in his hand thumping Trevor on the chest. “What? Los Santos? What a fucking paradise. A heart attack or a nursing home, now tell me which is better! I can die in some hospital, hooked up to a machine, staring up at some- some pitiless doctor, or waste away in a white room until my kids stop coming to visit. That sound like something to live for?”

He didn't wait for Trevor's reply. He was pacing again, turning sharp on his heel like a tiger in a cage. “I'm past my fucking prime – I gave that up when I told Davey to take you out!” He stopped, tension in every muscle of his body, a burning in his eyes that made Trevor's stomach lurch. “Or we can go out like we always talked about. Backs against the wall, guns in our hands, kill as many of the bastards as we can.”

“Mikey...” Trevor could see it – the cops, the choppers, the bullets sparking off the pavement and the steel shipping containers, their bloody end plastered all across the ten o'clock news.

A blaze of glory, a hail of bullets. Fuck. This was how it ended?

Him and Michael, side by side, how it was always meant to be - from the moment he had watched that beat-up sedan tear down the runway, sending up dust and gravel, from the moment he had reached out his hand and helped a kid with fire in his eyes climb into the plane beside him.

The way it was meant to go down in North Yankton, Los Santos, and everywhere in between.

“Alright,” Trevor said, crossing the length of the shipping container to clap his hand on Michael's shoulder. “Let's do this.”

 

 

    Michael Townley     


 

The twisted rabbit-ear antenna doesn't pick up much; the screen is more static than not, a flurry of white and grey that mirrors perfectly the snowstorm currently beating at the motel door.

But, in a surprising twist, the radiator works. It's warm and dry inside the room and they've hung a six-pack out of the window to keep it chilled. Michael's sprawled out on the single bed, which has been stripped down to the sheets because the comforter smells like semen and orange juice ( _not_ theirs, though he doesn't know if that makes it better or worse).

They talk about nothing. They talk about everything. First kisses (for Michael, a girl with mousy hair and braces back in middle school; for Trevor, a story so ludicrous, but so _Trevor_ , that Michael half believes it) and worst nightmares (for Trevor, clowns, and hearing it makes Michael feel a little less embarrassed in admitting: aliens). It passes the time.

“How d'you wanna go out, huh? Big car crash, fiery explosion?” Trevor slurs from across the room, sounding buzzed and half asleep, and Michael is too drunk for this. He's happy and horny when he's drunk, but not this time. Blames it on the snow piling up on the roof, wonders how much it can take before caving in.

Michael shrugs and spills some of his beer, wipes at the puddle with his sleeve. “Been trying too hard to stay alive to think 'bout it. Why?”

“Men like us...” Trevor trails off, drumming his fingers on his half-empty can. “We don't get to grow old. This kinda life doesn't come with a 401k and a retirement plan.”

“Shit. You don't say?” Michael wonders how long he should humor the other man. “What do you have planned, then?”

“Something big. Explosions.” He can hear the grin in Trevor's voice. “Like that chick flick you made me watch, where they drive off a cliff so the cops can't catch 'em.”

“Thelma and Louise?”

“Yeah, but with more dicks! Gun the engine, peel out, and laugh all the fuckin' way down.”

“You're a lunatic,” Michael says lightly, but he's smiling too.

“What about you?” Trevor urges. “You gotta have somethin'.”

“Mm.” Michael closes his eyes for a moment as he lets it play out in his head. “I'd want to go out fightin'. Like a couple of gunslingers in the Wild West, man. Nothin' but a gun in my hand and my partner-in-crime at my side.”

“Man, fuck me if your fat face is the last thing I get to see before I die.”

Michael laughs, surprises himself with the honesty of it. “Yeah, fuck you, T.”

He hears the shuffle of clothing, feels the bed dip with Trevor's weight as the other man sits down. Michael shifts over, leaves Trevor with the beer-soaked side to lie down in.

“Nah, I'll tell you what we do,” Trevor says. “We keep going. We're good- Me, you, we're good. Good enough to get away with it.”

“How many criminals get away with it?” Michael snorts. “You get arrested or you get killed.”

“Yeah, but the really good ones...” Trevor waves vaguely at the ceiling with his hand. Michael follows the gesture but can't see anything but water stains. “They don't get caught. So we don't hear 'bout 'em. Right?”

“Sure, T. Sure.”

But this is the life he's built for himself. Running whores and robbing banks and stealing cars, making just enough to get to the next town. Except now there was Amanda to think about, little Tracey and baby Jim. They deserve better than a welfare check. They deserve better than a husband and a father who is never home, better than a man who was either going to end up behind bars, or six feet under in a pauper's grave.

He thinks about going over a cliff, the wrench in his gut as the tires leave the road. He thinks about being backed into a corner, surrounded on all sides, squeezing the trigger with his dying breath.

He's not going to grow old. He can't keep living like this.

“What if there was a way?” Michael murmurs. “To get out?”

Trevor's quiet snores are his only answer. Michael rolls over, tucking his can of beer against his chest. He still has that number in his phone – that Dave Norton guy. Maybe he'll give him a call when the weather clears.


End file.
